Berezovo: A Revolutionary Russian Epic

Being so close to the eye of the storm, Yeliena had escaped the worst effects of the crisis, although on several occasions townspeople had accosted her in the street, either to berate her husband or to plead with her to persuade him to lift the order. Like the other women, she had walked to the fish market every morning and queued for food, determined that they should see that she was no better off than they were. But in the evening, she did not have to bear the brunt of a workless husband’s frustrations, or comfort a hungry child while fretting over the latest wild rumour. Instead, she had sat quietly, as the colonel and her husband had talked over the day’s affairs (much as Vasili and Chevanin were doing now), stifling her urge to cry out. The ordeal had lasted twenty-seven days. On the twenty-eighth, the epidemic having abated, the order of quarantine was lifted. Two months later, a letter of commendation signed by the Governor General himself had been delivered to their home. Characteristically, her husband had written in his reply that while he was honoured by the General’s letter, he would have preferred an assistant; a calculated piece of bravado which yielded not a rebuke but the arrival, the following summer, of a young Anton Ivanovich Chevanin. Now it seemed that the wheel of sickness had turned full circle and that the town was to be made to once more undergo the same trial. She wondered what atrocities might be committed due to the strain of isolation, deprivation of vital supplies and the threat of death.

“Until we know one way or another, it’s best to say nothing,” the doctor was saying. “All the same, keep a sharp look out for any signs of it on your rounds. Incidentally, have you been to the hospital today?”

“Yes,” replied Chevanin. “I looked in on my way over.”

“And?”

“Nothing to report there. Yesterday, two peasants were admitted suffering from vomiting and diarrhoea. I examined them myself. It wasn’t typhus.”

“What was it?”

“Our old friend ‘fishbelly’,” Chevanin told him, pulling a face.

The doctor stood up and began to pace agitatedly up and down.

“They had better be isolated, just in case,” he muttered adding quickly, “though I am sure your diagnosis is correct. Damn it! Why in God’s name won’t they learn? Anybody with an ounce of sense in his head knows that you shouldn’t half dry fish if you are putting it in store for the winter. But every year it’s the same. Some drunken fool falls ill and dies because months ago his wife – probably drunk herself – hadn’t dried the fish properly. How many times do I have to tell them? Half drying means semi-decay and when you rough salt the fish, you aren’t destroying the bacteria but preserving them. And what is the result? Ready-made poison!”

“Vasili, please calm down,” urged Yeliena.

But the doctor would not be calmed.

“I tell them over and over again,” he declared angrily. “Mix a little bit of sulphur with the salt. That way, it breaks down the bacteria. But do they listen? Of course not! So here we are, on the verge of a typhus epidemic in the town and the hospital beds are full of people with stomach ache!”

With an expression of disgust, he reached out for a small brass handbell which hung from a hook below the mantelpiece and rang it briskly. Katya appeared, wiping her large red hands on her apron.

“You may clear away the tea things and lay the table for supper,” he ordered.

“Yes sir.”

Turning to Chevanin, he enquired grumpily if he was free to eat with them. Unsure how he should reply after the doctor’s ill-tempered outburst, his assistant hesitated, glancing at Yeliena, but the doctor had already assumed his assent, for he instructed Katya to lay an extra place for him at the table.

“What are we having tonight, anyway?” he demanded of Yeliena.

“Fish,” she replied quietly.

There was a moment’s silence. Chevanin laughed.

“Then so be it!” declared Dr. Tortsov. “Fish it is and God help us all!”

Throwing himself back into his chair, he watched Katya clumsily clear away the remains of their tea. He appeared irritated at her presence.

“Poor Katya!” Yeliena chided him gently when the maid had left the room. “She will be worrying for days now that you don’t like the way she cooks fish, or that she might poison Anton Ivanovich. Then she would have nothing left to live for, but to throw herself in the Ob.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the doctor with a laugh. “What an absurd idea! I most certainly hope that she does not try to do that. Since it is frozen solid, she would only succeed in bouncing across to the other bank in a very undignified manner.”

“She might bounce even if it wasn’t frozen,” suggested Chevanin.

The doctor laughed again, his humour restored.