1850-01: A Survivor's Story (Part Four)
Pavel and Elizabeta receive terrible news.
This is part of a series centered on Pavel Tzarkowski’s experiences as a survivor in early Nova Espero entitled “1850-01.” Follow this link to go to the series’ page.
“Dr. Tzarkowski. Dr. Tzarkowski?”
Elizabeta’s eyes were fixed forward. It was just supposed to be a routine medical screen. The doctors assured her and Pavel that very rarely did they ever find anything noteworthy, and even if they did, it wasn’t anything a thorough delousing couldn’t fix.
Tuberculosis. Anna had tuberculosis. Even before the war, it wasn’t something to be trifled with. Wealthy romantics insulated from the grimmer world around them poeticized the illness, cooing soapy stanzas into their beloved’s ears as they withered away from a disease aptly referred to as “consumption.” It was said the paling of the skin made the sufferer more angelic, and that the disease’s slow onset and eventual mortality made it a more chivalrous and noble ailment.
But it doesn’t stay that way for long. The pale skin is soon supplemented by a hacking cough, often accompanied by blood and mucus. The patient’s chest tightens, their lungs cracking with every breath. They freeze through sleepless nights, all the while a slime of sweat soaks through their bedsheets.
Elizabeta knew all of this from her experiences as a girl in the impoverished ghettos of pre-War Hegeliopolis. Tuberculosis patients in her neighborhood were spirited away to haunting facilities, where they were stacked one on top of the other – but importantly, tightly packed far away from anyone else. The lucky ones were neglected and died at home. But at least they were in their bed.
What cruel twist of fate. Elizabeta finds herself with her family in an ostensibly safe place, and it means nothing. Dr. Lourdes – one of the handful of medical professionals who ply their trade in Nova Espero – just informed them that the rare and extremely difficult to replicate treatments for tuberculosis are triaged, only to be used for citizens. In the hierarchy of novos, the Tzarkowskis are not citizens, nor are they even yet “residents”: until they complete their quarantine, they are merely “survivors.”
Survivors.
Pavel sat there, by her side. Despite his propensity for anxiety and otherwise raw nerves, she felt no tremors in the hand tenderly wrapped around her own. His expression wasn’t vacant – more weathered, not only by their immediate circumstances but the cumulative weight of two years of heartbreak.
“Now thankfully we’ve caught it quite early,” the good doctor said for the one millionth time, as if that made much of a difference given the circumstances.
“Despite everything, Anna seems to be doing relatively well. She’s alert, she doesn’t have a detectable fever, and her cough isn’t so pronounced as to cause immediate alarm,” he continued.
“But it won’t stay that way,” Elizabeta said, the irritation audibly rising in her voice.
“This is true…” Dr. Lourdes replied. “It could be weeks. It could be months. Regardless, Anna will have to remain here until she is no longer contagious.”
“By then she’ll be dead,” Elizabeta snapped. She could feel her face warming the way it did whenever she got upset. She felt embarrassed for showing emotions, but harbored a surplus of rage sufficient not to care.
“I’ve seen this before, doctor. I’m not some ignorant peasant woman– ”
Pavel gripped her hand tighter. She knew that he wasn’t trying to scold her for making a scene – it was their daughter’s health being discussed. It was more so a way of comforting her, but also a reminder that this was all ultimately futile. What could her rage do? It was unlikely that she could shame this man into providing medication.
Pavel’s hand grounded her in a way. When she looked closer into the towering doctor’s eyes, she could see that he wasn’t some heartless functionary, bloodlessly condemning another wastrel of the Collapse into their grave. She saw Pavel’s eyes – those melancholic eyes, brought about by the routine little tragedies that everyone in those days witnessed. She considered that this wasn’t the first time he had broken this sort of news to a family. And that it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Though we won’t be able to grant Anna citizenship for quite some time, there is a way to speed up the process…” the doctor began.
“Whatever it is, we’ll do it.” These were the first words Elizabeta had heard from Pavel’s lips since they stepped into the office.
Dr. Lourdes paused, slightly taken aback by this burst of energy from Pavel. “Typically,” he continued, finding his footing, “after quarantine, survivors automatically become residents, and then, after six months of good work and good behavior, they become citizens.”
“But there are certain tasks that are difficult to perform and particularly hazardous, but ultimately still believed to be in the best interest of the community. Those who perform those tasks can become citizens in three months, and by extension, so do any dependent children.”
Three months, Elizabeta thought. Would that be enough time?
“I unfortunately cannot offer you a more expedited process,” Dr. Lourdes finished with exasperation. Despite the cortisol burning a hole in her gut, Elizabeta believed that this was genuine.
“What are the jobs?” Pavel asked.
“Generally treacherous work outside the ramparts,” Lourdes responded. “Resource recovery, stripping wire from buildings…”
He continued for quite some time – there was no shortage of necessary but unsavory work available. Plugging leaking sewer pipes. Scouting out hopefully abandoned factories and warehouses. Using dosimeters to map out potential radiation hotspots. Identifying and marking toxic waste sites.
“I’ll do it,” Elizabeta interrupted. Pavel knew better than to play the white knight with her. She’d sooner die than leave Anna and Filip without their father.
“Well Mrs. Tzarkowski…”
“Doctor Tzarkowski,” she snarled back.
“Pardon me, Doctor Tzarkowski, but the Residency Committee had a more internal task in mind for you.” Doctor Lourdes replied, a hint of wariness in his voice. “Given your interview responses and background, the Committee recommended that you be recruited to help reorganize our electrical grid.”
“And what?” Elizabeta snorted. “You need me for that, but I couldn’t get my daughter medicine? And what if I don’t?”
Elizabeta could see in Dr. Lourdes’ expression degrees of both frustration and sorrow. She could see that he didn’t necessarily disagree with her, though she also understood why he wouldn’t say so out loud. Just as was the case before the War, society extracts its costs in exchange for the benefits of society. Even if it meant, through inaction, costing the life of a little girl.
“You’ll have some time to think,” Dr. Lourdes said wearily as he packed his papers into his worn, brown leather briefcase. “You wouldn’t be able to start until after your quarantine anyway. Your daughter will of course receive all the care we’re legally allowed to provide.”
Elizabeta could feel her anger being watered down by sorrow, the heavy and unrelenting weight of powerlessness.
Futility.
“For what it’s worth,” Dr. Lourdes said as he started out the door. “I’m sorry.”
Pavel decided to pursue expedited citizenship. It wasn’t a difficult decision – was he supposed to watch helplessly as Anna wasted away, only being sustained by water, electrolytes, and limited medication?
Elizabeta was infuriated. Not so much at Pavel for leaving – even though she could feel an ulcer forming from that too – but at the system itself. The audacity to draft her into a specific role that only she could fill, and not even give her the courtesy of antibiotics for her daughter.
The next twelve days were agonizing. Pavel would have much preferred to be out beyond the ramparts, drawing down the service period necessary to get Anna the treatment she needed. Programming about city institutions, Common Council elections, employment procedures, obligatory militia service, and sports leagues were thoroughly uninteresting. Were it not for Anna lying dormant, bored in the infectious disease floor of the Survivors Hospital a few floors above, all of this would have fascinated the political development historian. Prior to the diagnosis, Pavel couldn’t help but observe everything through the lens of his academic training, and he was endlessly intrigued.
But now, an incomparable experiment in democratic development was occurring before his very eyes and he could not have possibly cared less.
Days went by, and more information came in the form of a trickle. Elizabeta’s assignment was more fleshed out. She would assist in reconfiguring the computer systems necessary to organize a more permanent electrical system for the growing settlement.
Elizabeta being Elizabeta, she managed to extract some concessions out of the Residency Committee in exchange for her active compliance. Anna would be moved to the more up-to-date citizen’s sanatorium, though she would still only receive the care afforded to residents. Elizabeta and Filip would have improved quarters at the Gluesenkamp Family Barracks, the hotel where residents stayed before gaining citizenship. Additionally, she would receive increased payment for her work above the mandated maximum wage for residents.
From Elizabeta’s perspective, these were improvements to be sure. These additional comforts were more for Filip and Anna’s sake – despite her and Pavel’s pleading, she was unable to secure the advanced care Anna really needed. To a Collapse-era society with a diminished population, giving out a handsome apartment was cheap. Increasing a wage with newly printed money wasn’t an extravagant expense. Giving Anna a room in a frankly underpopulated hospital wasn’t too difficult a perquisite to grant.
But doling out antibiotics when citizen scavengers, farmers, laborers, and soldiers were still occasionally dying from tetanus? Politically completely unpalatable. Citizens were already hesitant about admitting newcomers. They would be infuriated that if, in the zero-sum world of Collapse-era Nova Espero, someone had gotten a leg up without giving their due.
Three days before leaving the Survivor’s Hospital, Pavel received his official orders – he would be an “archival requisition specialist.” He and his team would be responsible for tracking down documents vital to the settlement’s success, such as agricultural manuals, maps of toxic industrial sites, and engineering schematics.
Given the alternative tasks that Pavel could have been assigned, this one seemed much safer, a bit more glamorous, and almost specially designed for him. It certainly seemed better than corpse removal or removing rubble.
But Pavel learned that this was actually a hazardous occupation. Archives and libraries, composed of solid materials and replete with cavernous basements made for fantastic nests for marauders. These basements were also frequently pitch dark chambers, with a variety of threats waiting around any corner.
Two weeks after they first arrived at the Survivor’s Hospital, Pavel, Elizabeta, and Filip walked out the front doors, residency stamps fixed to their survivor identification cards. Anna received her stamp too, and was quietly transferred to the sanatorium wing of the city’s principal medical facility. Filip, though usually silent, protested.
“Where’s sissy going?” he yelped. Anna was protective of her little brother, and in these harsh times even a four year old could understand what happens when your protection suddenly goes missing.
“She’s going somewhere safe. She’ll be home soon hon,” Pavel replied, lugging the tyke into his arms. Pavel couldn’t tell if he had gotten weaker over the past two years, or if Filip had gained some weight as a result of a finally full stomach. He hoped for the latter. Elizabeta did too.
Still a far cry from the median pre-War medical facility, the Nova Espero General Hospital was well-supplied and clean. There was no shortage of medical equipment – scavengers had gradually harvested everything from stethoscopes to x-ray machines to centrifuges from the ruins of the nearby Empress Margherita Imperial Hospital. It was a clean and professional outfit. Even so, Anna still would not receive the full course of medication necessary to most effectively battle her illness. All the artifacts of pre-War medical care could not fully mask the triage.
Even so, Anna was surrounded by other children with a similar condition to hers. No longer was she wasting away her finite youth alone in some darkened, makeshift hospital room in a decaying hotel. Despite her condition visibly worsening, she seemed happier there.
Pavel, Elizabeta, and Filip moved their belongings into a two-bedroom suite at the Gluesenkamp Family Barracks, a retrofitted three story limestone tenement. As Filip slept, Elizabeta found Pavel standing in the doorway to the kids’ room. She could see that he was staring at Anna’s vacant bed.
Pavel had always been the more sentimental of the two. Not that Elizabeta didn’t care. It’s just that her caring showed more in the form of bare teeth than bear hugs. Despite the anger she felt inside, she knew that Pavel felt it too. And she knew that, after almost two weeks of frustration, he was exhausted.
“She’ll be here soon enough,” she said, placing her arms around his waist. Elizabeta was by no means a delicate woman. In this moment, however, she held him not with intensity but with a careful tenderness.
“I know,” Pavel replied, tears forming in his eyes.
This is Part Four of a series centered on Pavel Tzarkowski’s experiences as a survivor in early Nova Espero entitled “1850-01.” Follow this link to read Part Five.