a little girl in anticipation of ensuring the education of his only child.
In medical school, Olga and the other women were treated with tolerance rather than acceptance. Olga's interest in surgery had been discouraged but her skill couldn't be denied. She pushed, insisted, studied, proved herself and passed all of her surgery examinations, examinations which, she understood, were much more rigorous in the West.
In spite of what she had heard of western physicians, Olga Yegeneva never thought of emigration or defection even had they been possible. Russia was her country. She had no desire to be anywhere else.
Even her initial assignment to a public ward dealing with daily complaints of workers at a radiator factory in Minsk had not initially discouraged her. It was the fact that she was given no surgery, no promotion, no change and no recognition of commendation that prompted her to consider a private career. The main problems with a private medical career were the costs, the pressure and suspicion of the medical committees, and the fact that she would have to deal with those who could afford her services. Olga hated dealing with money, hated bartering for the health of her patients.
According to Article 42 of the Soviet Constitution, which was quoted to her throughout her medical education and in every medical meeting she had attended, citizens of the USSR have the right to 'free, qualified medical care provided by State health institutions.' However, the quality of that care was in the hands of health care professionals, nurses, therapists, doctors, who were overworked, underpaid and often underqualified. Many of the professionals were outstanding, but many lived a life of professional lethargy.
'What shall I do?' Sarah Rostnikov said.
'Go home, pack lightly and wait for my call. I'll try to, clear an operating room for tomorrow morning,' the young woman said still holding Sarah's hands.
'Yes,' Sarah said looking around at a woman in a wheelchair being pushed by a serious young man.
There was nothing more to say. The younger woman hugged Sarah Rostnikov, and looked into her eyes with a confidence Sarah was sure she did not completely feel.
When Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov returned to the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity, he found three people in the assembly room, Emil Karpo, Dimitri Galich and a man kneeling in front of an open brown sack made of animal skins. Karpo and Galich had removed their coats and hats and stood still heavily clad in sweaters. Rostnikov noticed a most uncharacteristic piece of jewelry, a beaded necklace of amber, around the neck of Emil Karpo. He had no time or opportunity to comment on it at the moment. Rostnikov's attention was drawn to the man on his knees, who looked up for only an instant when Rostnikov stepped in. The kneeling man still wore his fur parka and hood.
'This is Kurmu,' Karpo announced to Rostnikov who opened his coat and plunged his hat into his pocket.
Galich said something guttural to the kneeling man who grunted but did not look up again.
'I told him you were a representative of the Soviet government with full powers,' Galich said.
'He does not appear to have been impressed,' said Rostnikov moving across the wooden floor toward the kneeling Evenk. 'What is he doing?'
'He says he is preparing,' Galich said. 'He hasn't told me what he is preparing for.'
'We'll try not to keep him from his task too long,' said Rostnikov. 'Emil, I think it would be best if we had no visitors for a while. That includes Dr. Samsonov and Comrade Sokolov.'
'You will have no visitors,' Karpo said. 'Shall I wait outside?'
'No,' said Rostnikov, yawning. 'We will go into Mirasnikov's room. My questions are few and simple.'
Karpo nodded. Galich walked to the Evenk still kneeling on the floor.
'Will you ask him to join us?' Rostnikov said and Galich spoke the language again.
Kurmu, apparently satisfied that he had what he needed, closed the sack, nodded and got to his feet. For the first time, he looked at Rostnikov and a smile passed between the two men. Rostnikov liked the man instantly.
Inside the nearby room, Liana Mirasnikov lay on a bed in the corner sleeping soundly. Sergei Mirasnikov lay, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his face drenched with perspiration.
Rostnikov watched Kurmu whose eyes fell on the dying old man. Before Rostnikov could ask his next question, Kurmu moved to Mirasnikov's bedside, sat cross-legged on the floor and opened his sack. He paused to loosen his parka and toss the cape back to reveal his peppery-white hair that hung straight and shining to his neck.
'You want me to ask him what he is doing?' Galich offered.
'No,' said Rostnikov watching the old man reach into the sack and pull out a small wooden bowl, a gnarled root and a brownish thick block.
'The root is ginseng,' Galich said. 'The other piece is panti, raindeer horn.'
Rostnikov watched with interest as the shaman pulled out a large knife with a white bone handle and began to shave pieces of ginseng and panti into the bowl.
'That's wild ginseng,' Galich said. 'During the Mongol occupation, a natural root like that would have been worth thousands of rubles. Even now that root looks like it would bring a good price in Manchuria.'
The shaman was rocking back and forth slowly as he reached into the sack again and pulled out a smaller jar that looked as if it had once held jelly. He opened the jar, took out a pinch of yellow, flaky material and mixed it into the bowl. While he mixed, he said something.
'He wants water,' Galich said. 'Water from snow. I'll get it.'
'How are you feeling?' Rostnikov asked as Galich moved toward the door.
Galich's eyes were heavy, tired and dark, and the man's white stubble of overnight beard reminded Rostnikov that the bulky former priest was not a young man, that he had been drunk when he went out into the Siberian winter, that he probably hadn't had much sleep in at least thirty hours.
'Fascinated,' Galich said with a grin and he left the room.
The closing of the door woke Mirasnikov who looked up at the wooden ceiling, blinked, wiped his face with his already soaked blanket and looked toward the sound of something moving at his side. When he saw Kurmu, Sergei Mirasnikov tried to scream. It was only the ghost of a scream because he had no strength, but his mouth and face made clear his intent.
Kurmu paid no attention and continued rocking and mixing his brew. Rostnikov moved to the bed quickly and looked down at Mirasnikov.
'Be calm, Sergei,' Rostnikov said. 'The shaman is trying to help you.'
'He means to kill me,' Mirasnikov said. 'He means to kill me for telling you that he sent the demon.'
Then Mirasnikov said something which Rostnikov didn't understand and the old shaman answered with what sounded like a single abrupt word that brought a dry laugh of disbelief from Mirasnikov.
'I say he means to kill me,' Mirasnikov said, getting up on his elbows. The sheet fell back showing the old man's thin, white bandaged chest.
Galich returned with a pot of snow which he brought to the shaman who accepted it with firm, brown hands. Mirasnikov lay back moaning and his wife paused in her snoring for a beat during which Rostnikov feared she would wake up.
'Can he talk while he does that?' Rostnikov asked.
Galich asked the shaman something and the old man nodded.
'Ask him if he saw Commissar Rutkin killed last week,' Rostnikov said.
'Time doesn't mean anything to an Evenk,' Galich said. 'I can ask him if he saw someone killed in town but to an Evenk a week ago is like ten years ago. It is the past and the past merges. They think the past, present and future are the same.'
'Ask him, please.'
While the shaman mixed and then poured his concoction into a tea cup, he answered questions Rostnikov put to him through the former priest and discovered that the shaman had, indeed, seen the death of the man from the West, that he had been murdered, that the murder had been done by a man and not a demon.
'Ask him if he knows who the man is, could recognize the man,' Rostnikov said.
The shaman was holding Mirasnikov's head up and urging him with grunts and words to finish the cool brew. Mirasnikov, eyes closed, was drinking and gurgling. He opened his eyes, saw Kurmu and closed them again. A thin line of the dark liquid trickled out of the corner of the old man's mouth but most of it got into him.
Galich spoke and Kurmu, concentrating on his task, get-ring the last of the cup's contents into the old man,
