“He is full of such dreams … this grey wolf of mine!” Lydia said, running her hand through her husband’s hair. “Quite mad, sometimes. We will forgive him though. He is an artist and they must all be mad.”
Anatoly became an artist only after he met Lydia, and he had not had any formal training. He suffered many frustrations because of his lack of knowledge of technique. He was determined to acquire technical proficiency. “It is hard to think about it, but we must go back to Moscow soon. Next year at the latest – thirty-five is the top age at which I can enrol in art school. Then we will have to endure four years of city life while I study. It will be difficult. We will have five mouths to feed and Lydia will have to work. But in the summers we will go east again – out to the taiga and to the tundra; and when I finish my studies, we will go east and never return.”
“I do not know how we will endure Moscow,” Lydia added. “There is no freedom in the city. I don’t like the restraint crowded places have, the formal structure of society. I wish I could have gone north before the development began, just to see it and live in it as it was. In Moscow last week we were watching T.V. when one of our singing stars sang the Tchersky Song.* I burst into tears. My relatives mocked me and said, ‘What is there in that cold and lonely place, when you could have Moscow?’ I could not answer them, because if they could ask such a foolish question they could never understand the answer. Here life is natural, friends are easy to acquire and they become so close and so dear. They are the best things in life. Love is the one true reality – without it all the wonderful things men are doing will mean no more than words of regret carved on a tombstone.”
Lydia and Anatoly were amongst the crowd who saw me off on my final departure from Tchersky. We hugged each other, and as I climbed the ramp into the plane, Lydia called out:
“Do not forget us! Remember! You cannot forget your friends!”
No, Lydia and Anatoly; I will not forget my friends.
* A haunting melody composed by a famous Soviet composer in honour of the town of Tchersky and of the people who are building it.
Twenty
TCHERSKY was definitely a “white man’s town.” Ordained by Moscow, designed by Europeans and, for the most part, built by them it was typical of the new cities of the north. As such it was a good place in which to glimpse the inter-relationships between the natives and the new people.
Superficially all appeared well between them. Occasionally I met someone from the European regions who adopted a condescending attitude toward the natives; and there were those who, while proclaiming the essential equality of all peoples, were not very keen to provide equal social opportunities.
On one occasion even Victor Nazarov who, at all points where I could reach him, seemed resolved to do everything in his power for the natives, committed a major blunder. He held a big party for John and me in his new and sumptuous two-storey semi-detached house. The guests included many of the important people in Tchersky and Green Cape … but all were Europeans. The Chukchee Mayor (Chairman of the town soviet) was conspicuous by his absence. The only non-Europeans present were Yuri Rytkheu and Nikolai Yakutsky, who could hardly have been left out since they were members of my group.
Both were unhappy. Ignoring the convention which dictates that nobody proposes a toast until the tamadar has given his approval, Yura got to his feet almost before we had settled ourselves at table and politely proposed a toast to those absent men and women in whose native country we were now enjoying ourselves. He then excused himself, and left the party. He could not, he said, “remain with my good friends here in the knowledge that my equally good friends of the Chukchee and Yukagir people are not with us too.”
His abrupt departure cast something of a shadow over the party, and it was not lightened when Nikolai was asked for a toast and gave us a speech instead. It was suavely done, but the unmistakeable import was that, although we were in Tchersky, we were also in the Yakut Republic, and the residents of Tchersky, regardless of their origins, should remember that they were citizens of that republic which was, and would remain, Yakutian. Nikolai concluded by proposing a special toast to “Our Republic” and he invited everyone to stand and drink it. Having made his point he relaxed into his usual amiable self. It was to be noted that for the balance of the evening he was accorded a rather too obvious respect.
The feelings of the smaller nothern native groups such as the Evenk, Chukchee, Eskimo, and Yukagir toward the hordes of new immigrants are somewhat ambivalent. On the one hand they seem sincerely grateful for what the state has done for them. On the other, many of them still seem to harbour an inner fear that they may eventually lose their identity. A young Eskimo attending teachers’ college in Leningrad put it this way:
“We don’t dislike the new people. Mostly, we like them very much. There is very little antagonism, but we feel they sometimes take us too much for granted … they assume we will follow their lead in everything because they know the way better than we do. This makes some of us uneasy for the future. But we are aware of the dangers and we are quietly working to strengthen our own people. One way to do this is not to become too much involved with the life the newcomers are leading. We try to stick to those things that were a part of our past. We modernize the old ways but do not reject them and run off to get factory jobs.”
In Tchersky only a handful of natives were employed in town jobs; the vast majority lived and worked as part of the state farm, and they kept control of this enterprise in their own hands. They were moving rapidly into the twentieth century but were doing so on their own terms. Their path was parallel to, but distinct from, the development of mineral resources and new human communities by the Russians.
This was not a subtle form of apartheid, since the facilities and opportunities available to the natives were no whit less in quality or quantity than those available to the new immigrants. If anything, the natives received perferential treatment, particularly in regard to such things as housing subsidies, financial and technical support for developing their own industries, educational opportunities, and medical services.
The medical situation in Tchersky seemed truly amazing to us. To serve the 13,000 people of the Lower Kolyma District there was, in 1966, a central hospital with seventy-five beds; a separate tuberculosis hospital with twenty beds, catering mainly to the natives and fast being phased out due to the virtual elimination of the disease; plus four nursing stations and small cottage hospitals.
The main hospital had a staff of fifteen fully qualified doctors, two dentists, an oculist, and twenty-two nurses. All of the doctors were specialists and the hospital was equipped to handle all but the most difficult cases. The medical staff for the whole District totalled 120 trained people. Complete medical check-ups were given to everyone twice a year. Radio transceivers at each nursing station or cottage hospital provided a direct link with the main hospital, and helicopters and AN-2 bush-planes were on permanent standby as flying ambulances. The entire service was free.
What really knocked the wind out of Claire and me was to be told that the service was understaffed! The authorized staff should have included six more doctors and an additional fourteen technicians and nurses. Tchersky people were up in arms about the “inexcusable failure of the authorities to properly meet our medical requirements.”
At one point Claire became personally involved in the medical services … as a patient. But before recounting her adventures with Soviet medicine, here are a few further scraps of information which she unearthed.
In 1966, eighty-four per cent of Soviet doctors were women. Why? Partly because women have a natural bent toward the healing arts, a bent they have been encouraged to follow in the U.S.S.R., but also because preference in medical schools is given to applicants who are already graduate nurses – and most nurses are women. The assumption is that anyone who has worked with sick people for several years and has not left the profession in favour of some other job is probably good doctor material.
T
here are few, if any, general practitioners amongst the fully qualified doctors now being graduated. Almost every graduate is a specialist. Part of the role formerly played by the general practitioner is filled by a professional rank which we in North America just do not have: that of feldsher. A feldsher is an “almost doctor,” trained in general diagnosis and able to cope with ailments which do not require specialist knowledge. Feldshers do the real legwork of Soviet medicine, and they can carry out relatively complicated treatment, including minor surgery. They stand better than halfway between a qualified nurse and a qualified doctor.
Claire’s experience with the Soviet medical system began one evening toward the end of our stay in Tchersky. Victor had assembled about fifty people in Lydia’s café for a dinner party. Claire decided to stay home because she had a headache and a sore throat. In truth, she was exhausted. As Kola and I left the hotel the lady concierge asked where Claire was. Kola explained she was not feeling well and was lying down.
With furious gesticulations the concierge made it clear that, in the Soviet Union, it is not permitted to be sick and it is most certainly not permitted to be sick without a doctor in attendance. Sputtering indignantly she shooed Kola back upstairs to act as interpreter while she telephoned for a doctor. I was allowed to go on my way, but not without a contemptuous glare – heartless beast that I obviously was.
When Kola failed to join the party after nearly an hour’s absence, I excused myself and slipped back to the hotel. I met him coming down the stairs, three at a time. His face was pale and he was sweating. He caught my arm and spun me around. We went past the concierge at a dead run and ducked out through the padded doors into the white night.
“That concierge! What a devil of a woman! And what a devil of an ordeal to put a man through! Claire? Oh, she’s all right, I think. But I don’t know if I can ever look her in the face again.”
Claire’s journal tells the story.
“I was dozing when the door burst open and in came the concierge accompanied by a pretty woman doctor, still in her hospital coat and all red-cheeked from rushing through the night. They were dragging Kola with them.
“The doctor got right down to business. She gave me the most complete physical exam I can remember. Heart, throat, ears, chest, stomach … everything. I hadn’t felt too badly until then, but now I began to feel worse. Surely, I thought, there must be something dreadfully wrong with me.
“She kept asking questions, rather intimate ones too, and poor Kola had to translate both ways. I could hear him choking with embarrassment. Finally the doctor produced a bag and began to dispense medicines – not singly, but box after box. The concierge departed and Kola translated the dosages which were written on the boxes in Latin on one side and Russian on the other.
“Then the doctor began putting mustard plasters on me – one in front and one on my back – and that was too much for Kola. He mumbled something and shot out of the room before the doctor could stop him.
“We got along just fine without him. I opened my phrase book and the doctor pointed to a line reading: ‘I am a throat specialist.’ All I could think of was that the Russian throat must occupy pretty much the whole of the human body.
“Those were the first mustard plasters I had ever had, and they burned like fury. The doctor asked if I’d like some chai (tea) and when I nodded she hustled out of the room. Ten minutes later she was back with plates of food and a pot of tea. Between sips of tea she dropped different pills down my throat until finally I got so warm and drowsy I just drifted off to sleep. My last thought was that this kind of service ought to be made a must by the American and Canadian Medical Associations. It would do their public image a lot of good.”
Two days later we left Tchersky on the return flight to Yakutsk. Victor Nazarov had been distraught about Claire’s cold (it was no more than that) and he not only arranged for the aircraft to be preheated before our flight but at the last moment decided to accompany us to Yakutsk himself so he could be sure his “beloved Clara” came to no harm. At least that is the excuse he gave. The gunny sack he loaded into the plane suggested he may not have been averse to a little outing on his own behalf.
On the flight south to Zirianka Victor set up a bar in the rear of the aircraft and we were soon dodging champagne corks. Claire, still rather heavily loaded with drugs, huddled in her seat and sniffled dejectedly as the party rolled about her.
When we landed at Zirianka, Victors’ opposite number, the Party Secretary of Zirianka District, met us with a pair of Bobyks and invited all hands to join him for a snack at the café, but Claire could not be budged. She insisted on being left to rest under a big blanket. All she asked was that we bring her back a glass of tea.
The Bobyks leapt across the field, and shortly we were enjoying an impromptu party at the community café. It was interrupted when a young man ran into the room and delivered a note to Victor’s friend.
The note was passed to Kola who translated aloud in a shaky voice.
“Comrade Braginsky! The Canadian women on the plane have been taken to hospital and it looks as if they will remain there.”
Panic ensued. Victor led the charge to the Bobyks. We roared through the streets of Zirianka to the hospital. Not a soul was in sight. There was no one at the receiving office, no one in the halls, no nurses at the desks and, if one could judge from the open doors and empty rooms, no patients either. We thundered down a long hall, and came to a large receiving room.
It was packed with people. There appeared to be sixty or seventy bodies crowded into it – patients in long nightdresses, office staff, crisp nurses, and every doctor in the hospital. In the centre, and struggling feebly, were the Canadian women. Both of her. She was being given a gargle.…
Later she told me the details of her adventure.
“When you and the other passengers cleared out of the plane, a big, motherly-looking woman who had been in one of the front seats stopped in the aisle and smiled and spoke to me. I snuggled down into my blanket and smiled back, then I shut my eyes hoping she would go away. It did no good. She grabbed my arm and felt my pulse. “Gorlo!” she cried, and touched my throat. I knew that one, and supposing she must be some kind of medical person, I opened my mouth. She took a look and then dashed off and got the pilot, and the two of them tried to get me to stand up and put on my coat and hat. I indicated that I was quite happy where I was. They pointed out the window and there under the wing was a great big ambulance and four men standing by it looking up at me.
“I got really scared. What were they trying to do with me? Where were they planning to take me? I protested, but it didn’t do a bit of good. Gently but firmly they got me up and into my coat.
“Since I couldn’t fight them, I had to give in. They loaded me aboard the ambulance and off we went, jouncing and bouncing. I hoped they might be taking me to join the rest of the party, but when we stopped we were in front of a hospital.…
“Once inside, they rushed me into this room and a crowd of men and women in white descended on me. I was sure I’d had it now. There was an awful lot of talk, then somebody produced a basin and someone else a glass of something hot. The lady who started it all, and who I now realized was a doctor herself, demonstrated that I was supposed to gargle. I was in no shape to argue, so gargle I did while the audience kept growing until the room was full. And that’s when you people suddenly appeared.”
Beaming and waving, the hospital staff said goodbye to their first Canadian patient and we drove back to the plane. There was a good deal of laughter in which Claire, for some reason, declined to join. She did not really relax until the plane was airborne and climbing away from Zirianka.
Claire’s story does not end there. During the next few days, which we spent in Yakutsk, she hardly dared blow her nose. “One morning when Farley and Yura and Kola were off somewhere, I had a sneezing fit. Twenty minutes later in came a large, jovial lady who took my temperature, checked my heart and blood pressure, felt my stomach, and then
prescribed more pills, nose drops, and another mustard plaster. She sent for a nurse to administer the plaster, then they both sat down and drank glasses of tea with me. I was getting used to this by now and decided I liked having the medical team around.”
This was just as well. The Soviet medical system was still not finished with her. When we went to the airport to catch a plane for Irkutsk we found, as usual, that the plane would be late leaving so we adjourned to the pilots’ room, and there Claire lay down upon a couch. It was as if she had pressed a magic button. Almost instantly a brisk young lady doctor appeared with a blood-testing device dangling in her hand.
Claire tried to refuse further assistance but she might as well have saved her breath. She was hustled off, willy-nilly, to the airport infirmary.
“The visit brought some interesting revelations. To my amazement I learned that every moderate-sized airport has a doctor and nurse in attendance. This is mainly for the benefit of sick passengers but also for the air crews. Every member of the crew has to have an examination before each flight, and this even applies to the stewardesses.
“This young woman doctor, who originally came from Kazakhstan, gave me nose drops, a throat spray, and ear drops to ease the pain of pressure when the plane took off. We discussed why I seemed to be the only person in Russia with a cold. She explained that everyone takes flu shots regularly, and that these seemed to cut the incidence of colds almost to nothing.
“How odd to be in a country where it is a major task to find a waitress in a restaurant; where you have to stand in line to buy a book; but where at the first sign of a sniffle you have to start defending yourself against a perfect deluge of doctors.”
Twenty-One
KNOWING it would be impossible to see all of Siberia, I at least tried to visit a series of representative communities. Until the time came to leave Tchersky I had done reasonably well. In the Yukagir tents I had seen (as nearly as could be) the outline structure of native life in olden times. I had visited little taiga communities conceived under the new order. I had lived in Yakutsk, a major native city which was making its own adjustments to the twentieth century. I had examined the blend of old and new in the Eurasian city of Irkutsk. In Tchersky I had witnessed the childhood days of a new, high-arctic community; and in Mirny had seen such a place in young adulthood. To round things off, I needed to visit one of the new cities in its maturity.