Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Unbeknownst to either the Doctor or his assistant, that morning’s market had been enlivened by the noise of bugle practice rising from behind the high walls of the barracks. Startled by the staccato fanfares, a draught pony had reversed the flat topped cart to which it was harnessed into a makeshift stall, spilling the stall’s stock of pinched root vegetables across the icy square. The sudden jolt had unbalanced the cart’s driver, who had been unloading the sacks of dried beans that he had been delivering to Nadnikov’s general store, causing him to fall from his cart. More seriously the cart had trapped the stallholder and run over his foot. As a result, and less than five minutes after Dr. Tortsov’s departure, the waiting room had become crowded with curious and sympathetic onlookers as the two men were brought to Chevanin to see what could be done for them.

Having listened to the accounts of what had happened, Chevanin determined that the stall holder was the more seriously injured party. White faced and moaning from the pain, the man was helped to the couch by his friends. Stepping back, they stood in a circle and waited, their rough fur hats twisting in their hands out of respect both for the status of the medical assistant and their comrade’s agony. Methodically, Chevanin set to work, instructing them to hold the man down as he began cutting the blood sodden boot from the mangled foot. The stall holder began to pant rapidly as the boot became looser, and then bellowed twice in pain as Chevanin drew away the severed leather shell.

Ordering the man to lie still, Chevanin viewed the foot with horror. Months ago, the stall holder had wrapped a piece of cloth around his feet to protect his toes from the cold. The folds of the rag were stuck together with sweat, dirt and now blood, and the man’s flesh, what he could see of it, was pale and filthy. He decided that he had no choice but to cut the foot cloth off also. Nodding to the men to hold him down again, he set to work. For a moment the stall holder lay motionless then, flinching as he felt the cold metal of the scissors graze the instep of his foot, he began to snort and bellow again. Unable to bear the sound one of his friends thrust his own hat into the man’s mouth, muffling his cries. Distressed by the pain he was causing the man Chevanin felt a wave of panic rise within him.

I don’t know I’m doing! he thought. I’m not a surgeon. They are all expecting me to help this man and I don’t know what to do!

A memory of Dr. Tortsov’s earliest advice swam into his mind. “Don’t lose your head. Relax and rely on your training. Do what you can, and what you can’t do leave to others.” Perspiring, he worked as fast as he could, cutting away the grimy cloth along what appeared to be the least damaged side of the foot and teasing it away from the bloody pulp underneath. Beneath his hands the man bucked and writhed with amazing strength, trying to pull his injured foot away, but two of the men held the leg steady and kept it pressed firmly onto the couch. Now, the cloth remained attached only to a wide flap of loose skin at the top of the foot. Anticipating the agony he would cause, Chevanin ordered the man to hold on to the sides of the couch. Then, gritting his teeth, he tore the remnants of the rag free from the foot with one brisk movement. Shaking violently, the man screamed and began banging his head frantically against the worn leather upholstery. With a sharp hissing intake of breath, the men tightened their grip on the injured man and peered into the wound.

There was a short pause while Chevanin disposed of the bloody rag. Turning away, he felt faint and feared that he was about to collapse. Only the knowledge that he would be judged more by his demeanour than his skill prevented him from flight. With his back to the group clustered around the examination couch, he took the moment of dropping the soiled cloth into the stove as an opportunity to collect his wits and to take two deep breaths.

You are a qualified physician, he reminded himself. You are in charge. The others are ignorant and know nothing of medical practice.

Bracing himself, he turned back to face the group. On the couch the stall holder, with upward jerks of his head, was trying to sit up and look at his foot but there was a forest of arms in the way and too many hands holding him down. The man’s eyes widened in alarm as he saw Chevanin return holding a small sponge, steaming from the sterilising pan, clamped between the claws of a pair of forceps. As the first drops of scalding water fell into the open wound, the man mercifully fainted.